The Gunslinger's Vow

by Amy Sandas

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied, though she wasn’t. She could feel the exhaustion pressing in around the edges of her awareness. Her focus on Malcolm was the only thing keeping it at bay. “Come on. We’ve got to get you settled. If you end up falling on the floor, that’s where you’re going to stay.”

  He braced his good hand on the table and pushed to his feet, swaying a bit when he straightened.

  Alexandra tucked herself along his side, fretting over the heat that emanated from his body. He was weak and unsteady, but they managed to get him to the bed. She drew back the woolen blanket just before he sat down.

  “All the way,” she urged.

  He obliged without argument, lying back as she lifted his feet onto the bed. After tugging his boots off, she covered him with the blanket but only to his waist, not wanting to make him too warm.

  “Just gonna rest a bit. Then we’ll be off again.” He made a sound almost like a sigh, and his head fell to the side.

  Alexandra stepped back but didn’t turn away. She stared at his large, muscled form laid out on the narrow mattress. His skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but not as much as she’d expect for the amount of heat burning beneath the surface. And that deep, angry redness extending from his shoulder was getting worse.

  Cleaning the wound wasn’t going to be enough. She needed something to kill any infection that might have started to spread.

  Yarrow. Or bee balm.

  Glancing out one of the cabin’s small windows, she saw the low slant of an evening sun. She would have to go now before it got too dark.

  After making sure the fire had enough wood, Alexandra stepped outside. She hoped she’d still be able to recognize the right plants. It had been years since she’d had to gather such things, and she had no idea how prevalent they might be in this area.

  But she had to try.

  Twenty-One

  Alexandra spent the night in a wretched state of worry and exhaustion.

  She found the herbs she needed and used the honey as a base for a poultice. Malcolm had barely stirred when she’d unwrapped his bandages and spread the mixture over his shoulder. It had been a challenge to get him to roll to his side so she could get to his back, but she managed it with gentle shoves and firm-voiced commands.

  Unfortunately, it was no longer just the area around his wound that burned so hot. A fever had taken hold of his body.

  Aside from the poultice, she’d also brewed some herbs into a tea to help fight infection from the inside, but he was too deeply unconscious for her to have any success in getting the tea down his throat. By then, her fatigue made it so that she could barely even think straight. She had to hope the poultice and rest would be enough.

  Her body aching with exhaustion, she curled up along Malcolm’s side in the narrow bed. The sound of his breathing lulled her swiftly to sleep.

  It could not have been much later that she was awoken by deep, guttural sounds of distress coming from the man beside her. The first thing she thought as she reached full consciousness was that she had somehow contracted a fever as well. She felt as though she were roasting on a spit.

  But in the next moment, she realized all the heat was coming from Malcolm.

  Turning on the narrow bed, she smoothed her hand over his chest, then up to the side of his face. It didn’t seem possible for a human body to exude so much heat. The light of the dying fire showed his features pressed into a hard grimace as he turned his head to avoid her touch.

  The fever was consuming him.

  Despite the stiffness of her limbs, she rose from the bed and stoked the fire just enough to provide more light and reheat the tea. Once the herbal drink was ready, she poured some into a bowl and set it on a chair beside the bed, along with another square of cloth from her petticoat. Using all the strength she had, she lifted his shoulders from the mattress enough to where she could ease her body between him and the wall at her back, allowing him to recline against her in a slightly more upright position.

  The heat and weight of him took her breath until she managed to shift to a better angle where his head rested against her shoulder and her arms were free to administer the tea.

  Then she soaked the cloth in the herb-steeped brew and brought it to his mouth, allowing the drops to ease between his lips in tiny doses. She continued the painstaking process until the bowl was empty. It would take a few hours before the tea would have any effect, but hopefully it would bring on perspiration to release the heat from his body.

  By the time sunrise started to flow into the shack through the open door, he seemed to be more comfortable.

  But it was a temporary reprieve.

  He began a pattern of fever spikes and restless sleep followed by a period of calm and quiet. Alexandra spent most of that day alternating between administering cooling-cloth baths, easing drops of the tea between his lips, and switching out old poultices for new. She caught fitful naps at his bedside and ignored the growing hunger in her belly until it got to be too much. She then warmed a can of beans over the fire.

  When Malcolm settled in for what she hoped would be another stretch of calm sleep, she decided she had better see what else she could find to eat before the sun set again.

  Earlier, she had snooped more about the cabin. In a small trunk that had been pushed under the bed, she found some men’s clothing made for a frame larger than hers, though not nearly as large as Malcolm’s, and a small cake of soap wrapped up in burlap.

  After spending the last few days in the same clothes, she was grateful to borrow the stored attire that was much more suited to her current situation. Her split skirt and cotton shirt were in desperate need of a washing, as were her underclothes. Though the pants were a bit baggy and had to be held up by a strip of rope, and the flannel shirt hung down to her knees until she tied the ends at her waist, at least the clothing was clean.

  At some point, she would wash their clothes in the large washtub she’d also found under the bed, but for now, finding more herbs and some food were more vital priorities.

  It was a relief to have something more appropriate to wear while scouting the land around the cabin. On her way out, she passed by Malcolm’s Colt, still slung over the back of the chair. She had a sudden unexpected urge to take the gun with her before the familiar fear swept the thought away. She’d been able to raise the gun to protect Malcolm in a moment of instinctual reaction. But to intentionally take up the weapon…she couldn’t.

  She would be fine without it.

  Careful not to venture too far from the cabin, she still managed to make wider circles than she had done the prior evening.

  She was delighted to find some wild mushrooms and wild onion and greens that could be added to a soup. It would not be terribly filling, but it was better than nothing. Based on the animal tracks she’d seen, she decided that if they were going to be staying for a while, it would be a good idea to set some snares. When he made it through the infection, Malcolm would need something more substantial than watery soup to help him regain his strength.

  Thank goodness her father had always been so determined to learn all there was to know about surviving off the land. As a child, she hadn’t thought twice about the knowledge she’d soaked up at his side. He’d made sure she knew all the various uses of local plants and herbs, how to hunt with bow, pistol, and rifle, and how to fashion a snare or a rudimentary fishing pole out of whatever was at hand. She’d never considered the skills anything other than necessary… until she was sent east, that is, and discovered how odd such skills were considered amongst her aunt’s people.

  Peter had said he appreciated the ways she was different from other young ladies in his set. What would he think if he saw her now?

  In truth, it didn’t matter. She would still do what she had to do.

  When she returned to the cabin, it was to find Malcolm in another fever peak. This one was
different, however. Sweat soaked the sheets as he moved in fitful, thrashing movements beneath the blankets. Perhaps the fever was finally breaking.

  Hopeful relief rushed through Alexandra, chasing away any lingering exhaustion. She quickly went about making him as comfortable as possible, bathing him with wet cloths soaked in water from the creek. After a while, he seemed cooler to the touch, and his restlessness calmed to the point that she was able to change his bandages. The wounds were still swollen and red. A slightly discolored fluid leaked from the entry site.

  She applied the poultice, making a mental note that she would need to make more the next day.

  Filling the two iron pots with water, she set them both over the fire. The smaller one would hold the soup, and the larger was for washing. Though washing with a cloth was not going to be nearly as satisfying as sinking into a bath, at least she had the chunk of soap, and she’d be able to dunk her head in the tub to wash the dirt from her hair. She would just have to be quick about it, since the cabin offered nothing by way of privacy.

  She glanced at the man sleeping somewhat peacefully in the bed. She hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking that he seemed to be resting more comfortably. After checking on him one more time to find that his skin was damp and much cooler to the touch than it had been, she began the process of preparing the items she’d brought back from her scavenging expedition.

  First the soup, then the bath.

  If his fever was truly on its way out, he might be waking soon. And after two days with no more sustenance than herbal tea, he was going to be famished.

  * * *

  Malcolm felt like hell.

  His body ached from head to toe, except for his shoulder, where it seemed like a burning hot stone was pressing down on him, making it impossible to move his arm without shooting pain.

  He tried to turn his head, but everything hurt too damn much. He was as weak as a child.

  A moment later, a cooling hand pressed to his forehead, and he heard the low murmur of a familiar woman’s voice. He tried to focus on that voice but couldn’t grasp a firm hold. Unable to resist the weight of his exhaustion, he slipped helplessly back beneath the dark waves of sleep.

  The next time he woke he felt a bit stronger and managed to open his eyes enough to see the flicker of firelight against a plain wooden ceiling. He shifted, and deep, throbbing pain rolled through his shoulder and down his arm, making his stomach turn.

  And he remembered. Dunstan’s men riding into their camp. The shooting.

  Alexandra drawing his Colt and killing that man with an expert shot.

  And the bullet that went through his shoulder.

  Thank God they hadn’t been far from Yellow Tom’s cabin. They were damned lucky Malcolm managed to get them here, though he barely remembered the details of that day.

  Giving up on trying to sit, he turned his head, expecting to see Alexandra nearby, probably scared out of her wits at being left alone to tend an unconscious man.

  The cabin was dimly lit by a low fire burning in the small hearth, and the gray light of a cloudy day could be seen through the small windows. Clothing had been draped over the chair and the table, both of which had been pulled closer to the fire for drying. He noticed the split riding skirt, the cotton shirt, stockings, and fine white underthings.

  But no Alex.

  With a grunt of pain, he tried to lift himself higher against the pillows.

  Where the hell was she?

  Glancing about, he got the sense that she hadn’t been gone long. The fire was well tended, and a strange smell hovered in the room, earthy and medicinal.

  As he lay there, struggling to prop himself up on his good arm, the cabin door opened, and Alexandra stepped through. She wore baggy woolen pants, with her knife strapped to her hip, and two dead rabbits hung from a rope in her hand. Her blue gaze swept to the bed where he lay, and her lips parted on a swift indrawn breath.

  “You’re awake,” she exclaimed in a low voice as she laid the rabbits beside the door and approached the bed.

  He grunted, the sound passing harshly through his parched throat. “You might call it that,” he muttered thickly. “Not sure I would.”

  “Let me get you some tea.”

  He didn’t feel the slightest craving for tea. Whiskey would have been more welcome, but she was already headed to the fire.

  She took off her coat along the way and tossed it onto the chair seat, followed by her felt hat. Along with the oversized woolen pants, she wore an old, faded flannel shirt that was way too big for her, and she had braided her hair into a long rope hanging down the center of her back, leaving the end to swing against the bunched-up seat of her pants. She looked nothing like the woman who had barged into the saloon a couple of weeks ago.

  The transformation was unsettling.

  She returned to his side with a battered old tin cup. Steam rose from its depths. “I brewed this fresh this morning.” She flashed a quick smile. “I will heat up some soup when you feel up to it.”

  “How long have I been out?” he asked. The words felt like sandpaper passing through his throat.

  “This is our third day here at the cabin. I thought you might wake up last night, but it seemed you needed another night of rest.”

  He tried to push to sitting again, but weakness and the pain in his shoulder made his jaw tighten with the effort.

  “Here. Let me help.”

  She set the cup down on the floor before leaning forward to slide her arm and shoulder around behind him. Leveraging him with very little disturbance of his arm, she efficiently rearranged the pillow to give a little added support. It wasn’t quite sitting, but it would allow him to drink the tea without pouring it all over himself.

  “You’ve done that before,” he stated as she settled herself at the edge of the bed and reached for the cup again.

  She tossed him another smile. “A time or two.”

  It galled his pride that she’d had to play nursemaid to him. He was supposed to take care of her, not the other way around.

  “Drink this, please. It will give you some strength.”

  He took the cup from her hand and sniffed the fragrant steam. It smelled of soil and rain and some unidentifiable element.

  He must have made a face, because she gave a soft chuckle, bringing his eyes back to hers. “It’s not nearly as bad as what I had to give you the last two days. You are lucky you’ve been unconscious with fever.”

  “You been trying to poison me?” he asked with a lifted brow.

  She gave a snort. “Hardly.”

  He took a drink of the watery brew, then another. The heat of it soothed his throat, and the taste was not nearly as bad as the smell. As he sipped, she returned to the fire where she crouched beside an iron pot swinging from a hook attached to the wall. She drew it out from over the fire and stirred its contents.

  She moved about the cabin with a quiet sort of ease and confidence that he hadn’t noticed during their days on the trail…though if he were honest, he would have to admit that maybe it had always been there and he just hadn’t been paying attention. He recalled the many times she’d offered to assist with various tasks, only to have him shut her down. He’d assumed she’d only offered out of some obligation of manners.

  But maybe she did know how to properly dress a bird and skin a rabbit.

  “I need to check your shoulder,” she said as she returned to his side. Her hip bumped against his as she sat beside him on the stiff mattress.

  She displayed no prudish hesitance at being so near to him while he was naked from the waist up. She’d apparently had time to get used to it and didn’t even seem aware of the impropriety of the situation.

  He was aware.

  Even though he ached from head to toe and his shoulder throbbed and burned like the devil, he was damn sure aware of her. Her nearness, her scent
—more earthy and fresh, but still sweet—her warmth, and the way all those things made him feel deep down in the dark hollow of his being. Days of fever hadn’t been enough to lessen his attraction to her.

  It possibly only increased his desire. It had been easier to ignore when she’d been so obviously out of reach. But the woman beside him was not a stiff and proper high-stepping lady.

  This woman was all ease and comfort and feminine capability.

  He watched her face while she started to release the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. Her expression was intent, her eyes focused. Her hands were warm and her fingers deft as they brushed his tender skin. He clenched his jaw to keep from flinching when the final layers of the cloth were removed, leaving his wound unprotected.

  She probed gently around the area. She did not hesitate in her actions and gave no indication of being repulsed by the damaged flesh.

  “The area has cooled, and there is no more discolored fluid draining from the site,” she murmured thoughtfully. “But there is still a great deal of healing to be done.”

  Lifting her gaze to meet his, she stilled. The black centers of her eyes expanded, contracting the blue around them. Her lips were parted as though she had intended to say something but couldn’t manage to get it out, and Malcolm suspected he knew why.

  While she’d been tending him, she’d leaned in close to conduct a thorough examination, and when she’d finished, she’d laid her hand on his chest, just over the spot where his heart beat heavy and strong. It seemed a natural action at the time, but when she’d lifted her eyes, she had clearly been surprised by the intimacy of their position.

  He couldn’t stop the subtle curling of his lips. “A bit different now, isn’t it?” he asked, keeping his voice low, not wanting to spook her.

  She took a slow breath, then let it out on a shaky little sigh before she drew back and lifted her hand from his bare chest. “A bit,” she answered before she rose to her feet with a blush that told him she wasn’t entirely unaffected.